


the naughty list

by EllsterSMASH



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Modern Thedas, Semi-Public Sex, Wall Sex, except with christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-09-24 23:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17109905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllsterSMASH/pseuds/EllsterSMASH
Summary: Solas has been assigned the role of Santa Claus at Josie’s Christmas Party, and he is not looking forward to it. Athi does her best to raise his spirits. Later on, he finds a way to return the favor.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yes i realize that christmas would not be a thing in thedas, modern or otherwise, but i needed this to happen, so... for the purpose of this fic, IT IS. k enjoy :) and thanks to [kitbug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitbug) for your help!

“I cannot believe I agreed to this.”

Athi looks up at the image reflected in the mirror and does her very best not to laugh.

“To be perfectly honest,” she says, smile cracked so wide it almost hurts, “neither can I.”

Solas is dressed, head to toe, in red velvet and black leather and white faux fur. The suit is clearly well-padded around the middle, and comes complete with matching hat and curly white beard.

He looks miserable.

And _fantastic._

“The suit is very uncomfortable,” he says.

“But you look so good!”

He sighs heavily. “And the beard itches.”

Still grinning, she goes back to her mirror. Earrings and one last hairpin—no, two (for good measure).

“This holiday is ridiculous in every way. I would number the reasons, but I am sure you’re aware. Will there even be children at this party?”

“I doubt it.”

“Then _why_ —” He huffs and shakes his head; the beard sways back and forth. “Completely ridiculous.”

She finally turns to face him, delighted beyond all reason.

Ever-indulgent, he says again: “I cannot believe I agreed to this.”

“For what it’s worth, Dorian and I did get you _very_ drunk before we asked.”

“That . . . explains a great deal, actually.”

He’s most likely thinking of the peanut butter sandwich in his slippers; he’d insisted, late that fateful night, and she remembers being too wooed by the idea of a _slipper snack_ to argue.

She goes to him and inspects his costume—smooths down the fur, adjusts his belt. The coat is decently made and heavy, with thick fabric and a wide black belt around the middle. The beard does feel itchy, though.

She scrunches her fingers up in the long fuzzy curls. “How do you like having hair?”

“Not very well.”

“I think it suits you. Very fetching.”

“I am hot.”

“Sure are,” she says, and he rolls his eyes. “Although you’re definitely missing something . . . ”

“Self-respect, perhaps?”

“No, that’s not it.” Athi squints, then pulls his face down to hers. Three kisses with her red-stained lips, both cheeks and the tip of his nose, and rubs it in.

“Perfect.”

Solas sighs again and turns back toward the closet. “I am going to change.”

“No!” She pulls on his elbow. “Solas, you promised you’d do it! We _need_ a Santa.”

She cozies up to him, eyes big and pleading, lips turned down in a pout. One hand sliding sensually up the heavy velvet over his chest.

“You realize I cannot feel that.”

She pretends she doesn’t hear him.

“It’s an important job, you know. Handing out the gifts, giving hearty belly laughs”—she pats his padded stomach—“distracting Cassandra while I spike the eggnog . . . ”

He gives her a hard and weary look, undermined by a tiny little smile.

She pretends she doesn’t see it.

“Not to mention all those toys you have to collect and distribute! Lots of people counting on you tonight, Mr. Claus.”

“Ah yes. I seem to recall something about making a list.”

“Yep. Gotta check it. _Twice._ ”

He chuckles. “I doubt that would be in your best interest.”

She pulls back in mock offense. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

His gaze slides away with a shrug.

“I’ll have you know I’ve been _very_ good.” She punctuates with a finger to his big red puffy velvet chest. “This year”— _poke!—_ “and every year”— _poke!—_ “so put _that_ on your fucking list.” _Poke!_

“I am sorry, _vhenan,_ but my judgment is above reproach. It is also quite final.”

“Oh come on. I can’t be on the naughty list. I made that kickass soup the other day! You said you loved it. You said it was _your favorite._ ”

“The soup was delicious. I hope you make it again.”

“Tell you what, handsome: you put me on the good list, and I’ll make you some right now.”

“Are you attempting to bribe me?” Solas folds his arms as best he can. “Bribes are decidedly a naughty sort of behavior.”

“It’s not a bribe! It’s a damn good deal and you know it. Honestly, I should probably get a free pass to the nice list, what with me being Santa’s girlfriend and all. Good by association, or something.”

“Absolutely not. If I were to be seen playing favorites, it would most certainly tarnish my good reputation as a fair—

“Generous.”

“—and honorable—”

“Jolly!”

“—ruler of the winter holidays.”

She shakes her head, giggling. “ _Father Christmas_ _._ ”

Under the snowy white curls of the beard, she can make out the faint shape of a smile, his eyes crinkled at the edges to match.

“All right,” she concedes, satisfied with his improved humor. “Fine, you’re incorruptible.”

“Indeed.”

Feeling frisky from their flirtations, Athi toys with the strip of fluff running down the center of the suit. “So, naughty, huh? What do I get for being on _that_ list?”

“The traditional gift is coal—”

She pushes gently on his chest, and he leans back against the wall.

“I don’t want coal,” she says.

“I'm quite sure that is the point.”

She unfastens his belt, sliding it free of the garish silver buckle. When he makes no move to stop her, she starts on the buttons hidden beneath the fur.

“Very well. Perhaps we might substitute some grass clippings or even used corn cobs. Those would, I believe, be suitable alternatives.”

“Don’t want that either.”

The last button comes free and she drops to her knees.

“How about a broken watch? I’m afraid that is the best I can offer.”

Athi shakes her head, sliding the elastic waist of the trousers down to expose his briefs and the telling bulge at the front of them.

“You are aware that this technically still counts as a bribe?”

“No,” she says. “I’m nice, and I’ll prove it, and then maybe _Santa_ will bring me what I asked him for instead of dirty old corn cobs.”

Solas grins and gestures for her to continue.

Peering up through her lashes, she makes a show of it for him, nuzzling his package through the fabric of his briefs. Then she drags the flat of her tongue along the shape of his hardening length, leaving an open-mouthed kiss wet on the taut fabric over its head.

Leaves a lipstick stain, too.

She smears it with a hand, caressing gently but insistent, and he stiffens fully beneath her touch.

It’s difficult to keep from giggling with the coat and its padding crowding her on both sides, and with him staring down at her, still shrouded in that damn beard. But she does _try._ That has to count for something.

She frees him slowly, inching the fabric lower and lower, then pauses with the elastic band still holding his length up against his abdomen. Again, she runs her tongue up the underside of his cock to the bead of salty precum at the tip.

She hums appreciatively—“So _that's_ what sugar plums taste like . . . ”—and pulls his briefs down to his thighs.

Solas laughs, though his eyes still smolder.

She slowly closes one hand around its base, a couple of fingers toying idly with his sack.

Mouth open, she rests his cockhead just inside, lets him see it pillowed there on her tongue before she closes her lips around him. She doesn't take him in further, not yet. Instead, she flicks her tongue along the tip and swirls it around the ridge, sucking gently as she pulls back . . . only to press her lips together close so he can feel himself push past them again.

She loves the way it fits in her mouth.

She tells him.

His pleasure flickers across his face, and his hand finds her hair. Urges her onto his cock, to hold him in her mouth, again, _more,_ and she’s all too happy to oblige. This time, her lips close onto his shaft, the tip tickling at the very back of her tongue.

She can take a bit more.

She forgoes any pretense of grace and spits on his cockhead, spreading it along his hardened length with a few strokes of her hand. The more of him she takes, the easier it gets. Her fingers are slick and responsive, twisting and pumping in time with the steady bob of her head. Faster, then slow, again, _more;_ one fluid motion, and she wonders what it’s like.

To see her lap up his precum like sweet champagne. To feel her hum with his cock inside her mouth, or her hand massaging his balls while she swallows around him. To know she'll go without air just to be closer, to be better, to please him.

Tugging and squeezing and stroking and pulsing and swirling and it has _got_ to be better than fucking.

He's beginning to lose his careful control, too close to his peak to care. Eyes shut tight, breathing heavy. Uttering un-worded sounds that sometimes come close to her name.

“Ath . . . Athi, I'm—  _Ah!_ ”

She opens her mouth and strokes him through his climax as hot cum spurts back into her throat and on her tongue. Wrings out the last of it as he curses and comes down. Cleans him of the evidence just as carefully as she wrought it.

She tucks his cock back into his briefs with one last kiss to the very tip, and helps him reassemble his costume. Trousers up, coat buttoned, belt cinched. Then she pulls down his beard and kisses him full on the mouth, his arms coming around her shoulders and holding her tight up against him.

He’s right. It’s hot.

“So, am I nice or what?”

“Oh, no,” he says. “That was unquestionably naughty.”

She laughs, giddy and self-satisfied. “It was worth a try. What can I say? Being nice isn’t nearly as fun.”

“On that we can agree.” His smile is full of suggestion. “I might even try being naughty myself later.”

“Well, Santa, I’ve got to admit . . . I’m looking forward to that.”

He kisses her, and could so easily sweep her away, but they have a party to get to. One they’re definitely late for, now. She untangles herself from his grasp, fixes his beard, smooths her hair, rinses her mouth, reapplies her lipstick.

And pats his belly (for good measure) on their way out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two, as requested by [Viking_woman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viking_woman/)! And thank you, [bearlytolerable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearlytolerable/), for checking it over for me. ♥

As it turns out, playing Santa Claus isn’t the _worst_ way to spend a party. Other than the beard—which still itches—the evening has been rather enjoyable. Josephine is hosting, which means two things: firstly, that the food and drink are top-notch, and secondly, that the already-elegantly-furnished conference room at the local hotel has been decorated to within an inch of its life.

Solas has to admit; it does make for quite the effect.

Everyone is in attendance that was invited, and all are in good spirits. As a result, he’s been kept very busy. But with the gift-giving done and the novelty of his role a little worn, it seems he’s finally found a moment of respite.

Athi walks his way, an open bottle of champagne in one hand, a slender half-empty glass in the other, and his favorite black dress hugging every one of her curves. She hooks an arm around his neck and perches on his knee.

“This seat taken?”

“Taken? No.” He strokes the small of her back with a gloved hand. “Though it is almost certainly bruised.”

Another bewildering custom, this _sitting on Santa’s lap._ Most of their friends had taken a turn, and Bull had nearly crushed him for the sake of a picture.

“Poor baby.” She sips from her glass, then refills his empty one and fiddles with the trim on his coat as he drinks. “Hey, how would you like to take this thing off?”

“Is that an offer of assistance?”

“Maybe.”

The way she smiles at him then does wonders for his imagination. What with her green eyes glimmering and the edge of her lip caught between her teeth.

“We should probably ask Josie,” she continues, “but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you changed. All the fun bits are over with anyway.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that.”

She tugs on his earlobe—“Insatiable.”—and downs the last of her champagne.

Solas does the same. Abandoning the party, he follows her down the hallway and into the coat room, tugging off the beard as he locks the door behind them. By the time he turns around, she is rifling through the shopping bag in which he’d brought his change of clothes.

“I tossed another tie in there. Not crazy about the—”

But he has his mouth on her before she finishes the sentence, pinned between his knee and the small stretch of wall left uncovered by coats. Champagne and peppermint; sweetness on her lips, down her neck, at her collarbone.

“Thought you wanted to change,” she says, and her breathlessness only serves to spur him on.

“In time.”

First, he has a debt to repay.

Well, _first,_ he has to get this coat off so he can think about anything other than how warm he is. _Then_ he has a debt to repay.

He’s halfway finished with the buttons when she pushes his hands away to do it herself.

“In a hurry?”

“Better at it.”

“You think so?”

She smirks. “Not my first time.”

And she’s right, she has him free in a few short seconds. He flings the coat into the middle of the room, but he’s still uncomfortably hot. The hat—he takes it off.

“No!” Athi snatches it from his hand before it can join the coat on the floor. “It’s iconic.”

“Perhaps you should wear it, then. I, for one, have played my part for the evening.”

She tugs it down over the crown of her head. “Fine. Looks better on me anyway.”

“I can hardly disagree.” And he descends upon her once more.

Her body presses against his own, straining up to meet him despite the help of those heels. He slides his hands up the smooth twin curves of her thighs, familiar ground that feels deliciously forbidden when he dips underneath the fabric of her little black dress. Yet she makes no move to stop him, not when his thumbs hook into her panties. Not when he tugs them to the floor.

Not even when he slides his hand between her legs.

In fact, she shifts to give him access.

“All right,” she says, “but if we're doing this, we should at least try to be quiet about it. For Josie's sake.”

“No,” and he grins, “ _you_ should try to be quiet.”

And she does, his shoulder muffling her surprise at his firm, deliberate touch. Two fingers, to start, sliding wet through her lower lips.

 _Oh,_ he wants to taste her. Mollifies his desire with a nip to her exposed jaw as he presses one finger deep inside her. She stifles a cry by crushing her lips to his; he adds another. Finds a rhythm that she likes, then rubs her pearl in steady circles with his thumb.

Despite the added elements of urgency and risk, this is hardly new territory, and she’s not difficult to read. For him, she melts so easily, all broken breaths and selfish hips, her hands on his head, in her hair, at her breast.

“You are making quite a mess of my hand, you know.”

She shushes him.

Steady circles; he curls his fingers toward her other sweet spot, again and again and she writhes into his touch, one red-painted lip drawn between her teeth in concentration.

He pulls his fingers free, slick with her arousal, and kneels. Taps her ankle. She shifts her weight to one of those beautiful legs of hers and lets him hook the other over his shoulder.

From here, his every inhale is full of her scent. It curls over his senses like a fog, heady and sweet and salty like the taste of her, but without its brightness. His cock twitches, trapped inside his briefs but _interested_ and he indulges in a few more deep breaths before lowering his mouth to her slit.

She gasps softly as his tongue delves inside her, parting her folds and plunging into her soaking cunt.

There, _there_ is the whole of her. He's heard some lovers don't like the taste, but he finds it pleasant. Comforting, even. Overwhelmingly sensual. It changes somewhat, day-to-day, yet somehow is always undoubtedly _her._

Her head is thrown back in pleasure, eyes shut tight and he can hear her straining at her own rule, muttering barely-there encouragements: _yesyesyes_ and _rightthererightthere._  As though the ceaseless movement of her hips was not encouragement enough.

He comes up for air reluctantly. Licks his tongue up through her folds to spiral around her clit until her fingers dig deep into his scalp. All he can taste, all he can smell, all he can see, all that exists—despite the very faint sound of _A Holly Jolly Christmas_ wafting in from down the hall—is her.

She whispers his name. That is all the warning he receives before she comes in a crescendo of shaking, shuddering breaths, coating his chin in a fresh wave of her slick. He coaxes her through the aftershocks. Slows when she does. Simmers as she cools.

Or perhaps she doesn't.

“So, _Santa._ That as naughty as you get?” She whispers it loud, breath still heaving.

“I would say that depends.”

“On?”

Her skin is so damn tempting; he cannot help but kiss it on his way back up. “Whether or not you can take any more.”

His lover laughs, impatient fingers sliding into his pants. “Have I ever said no to more?”

She has not.

He has her turned around in half a second, pushed up against the wall in another. The heels help dramatically, though the angle will still be a strain. Worth it, though. He hopes.

She does not wait for him to be ready; he has barely enough time to yank up her hem and stroke his cock twice before she practically impales herself. A curse tumbles out of him as she sinks backward, enveloping him in her heat. Then again, as a long low moan, once he's fully hilted within her.

She clasps her hand over his mouth just as the doorknob rattles. They both freeze.

The attempt is soon followed by a knock.

“Anyone in there?”

It's Bull.

“Ah, yes! I was just changing,” Solas replies, doing his best to keep his voice level as Athi snickers.

“Right, okay. Hey, Solas, you know where Lavellan's at?”

“She's, ah—” He winces. “She's here too.”

Bull pauses. Then: “I see.”

The amusement in his voice is damning.

“Well,” he says, “I'll leave you to it, then. Must be pretty tough work getting out of a suit like that.”

Athi wriggles, the slight movement drawing a surge of blood and sensation back to his groin. Solas can't think of a valid response besides a strangled _“Yes.”_

“Oh,” Bull adds, “Lavellan, I've got that recipe written down for you. Let me know when you're, uh . . . finished.”

She grins. “Sure thing. Thanks!”

The carpeted hallway gives little more than a creak to signify his departure.

Solas hesitates. He could stop. Even buried inside her as he is, even so, they could call a cab right now and be in the safety and comfort of their bedroom within ten minutes. But then she looks back at him over her shoulder and wets her lips and rolls her hips and whispers, “Now fuck me already.”

All thought of delay evaporates.

All thoughts of any kind evaporate.

So he does fuck her. Hard and fast, while the ill-fitting velvet slips off his hips and pools at his ankles. She clutches him desperately, pulls him close with her nails digging into all she can reach of his ass. With her spine arched into a harsh curve to meet him. With what might be blood on her lip from the effort of silence. He misses her sounds, but the whispers she leaves for him to catch— _“Oh gods, oh fuck yes, that’s so good, so good.”—_ and the soft lewd slap of flesh on flesh very nearly make up for it.

His thighs and calves burn and his willpower wanes and the thought crosses his mind that he might not be able to hold out.

“Are you—”

“So _fucking_ close, don't stop.”

Her hand slides off the wall, reaches down, then she comes again. Violently, almost, with a sharp sob that he doesn't care is uncontained. And as her muscles clench tight around him, begging him to fill her, he follows, growling, pressing so deeply that her heels come off the ground.

She takes all he has to give, every pulse of blinding pleasure like cool relief until he is emptied. Spent.

And the fog in his mind empties with it, revealing another problem. Namely, that of gravity.

He considers how to clean his spend from between her legs. Considers the hat, but she's right—it looks good on her. Considers her panties, but they’re mostly just string. Considers his hand, but then what?

So he slips out and turns her and kneels and brings her leg back up to his shoulder.

“What are you—”

He drags the flat of his tongue up her inner thigh, catching the slow drip of his own spend, only barely saltier than her skin.

“Oh,” she says on an exhale.

It is a different motion than before, not intended to excite but the way she watches him—lips parted, cheeks flush, eyes dark—implies it might be dual-purpose.

When he is done, she's still not exactly clean, but clean enough at least to make it home.

On board as ever, she returns the favor, then they quickly reassemble. He does not bother with the tie; they can't return to the party like this.

Her kiss, before they go, is deep, love and heat and the taste of them both.

And she giggles when they part.

“Looks like we're both getting coal this year.”


End file.
